This is a tale, written by an adult and intented for adult reading. If you're not a legal adult where you live, if this subject matter is illegal, or if you are offended by male/male sex, don't read any further.
Sc/fi - adult M2M sex c 2010 webbrohmer@hotmail.com
THE LION AND THE HOUND
Dionikas wasn't sure why he happened to notice the captive but he did.
The naked man was bound at the wrists and was being dragged by two men ready to make their sport of him; they had already removed their leather loin pouches and were stiff with anticipation but he did not struggle against them.
Dionikas noticed his eyes...bright and lapis blue, shining fearfully from a face framed in brown sandy hair. His beard was full and carefully groomed-a mark of breeding, and better kept than his own at the moment. The body was lean and wiry yet showed strong in the muscles and belly; a fine carpet of brown hair covered his torso and spread down his thighs.
It was the sight of his thigh which moved Dionikas to action. On the inside of his left thigh Dionikas saw what looked like a ritual scar.
Was he a Magician?
"Release him."
Dionikas drew his sword and stepped forward as his voice cut through the din of the camp. The men stopped. Lapis eyes fixed on Dionikas' walnut ones; his only movement was the heaving of his chest.
"That ritual scar on this thigh? He's a Magician and should not be violated. Free him and bring him to me."
The two soldiers helped the Magician to his feet. Dionikas turned away to an undercurrent of murmurs. His own tastes were well known. Even though this man matched them, he was more interested in what this Magician might know than what he might offer.
He stalked back through the camp to his tent, mind churning. All he needed was this blue-eyed magician adding to his troubles-assuming he was a magician; he himself had not had a close enough look at the scar to be certain. Dionikas hoped his lucky guess was right. He'd find out soon enough.
Even if he were not he hoped this man could provide some valuable information. He definitely didn't deserve to be treated like the other captives.
Dionikas passed many of his men working off their built-up blood lust. The women and children-a mere handful-were isolated in the castle, guarded by Dionikas' most trusted men. In good condition, they would command high prices in the slave markets. The men were stripped and turned over to his soldiers.
One man was hanging by his nipples from a cord, suspended from a cross-bar, just far enough off the ground for his feet to not touch; right now he grasped the cord with his hands, supporting himself. Another cord ran through his foreskin and stretched tautly to a stake in the ground. Blood still seeped from the three wounds. The captive's eyes, bright with pain and hatred, followed Dionikas as he approached a captain, testing a flogger.
Without a word, Dionikas grabbed the whip and, in one savage motion, turned to flail at the prisoner, lashing him right across the back. The man thrashed and squirmed as the powerfully-built Dionikas struck again and again, across his back, his buttocks, his waist and thighs, the bottoms of his feet.
Panting and sweating, Dionikas dropped the cat and stalked off while the captain, slowly stroking his erection, moved in on the captive, now hanging limply from his nipples and foreskin.
He passed a crowd of soldiers who had formed a circle around two more men, caked with sweat and blood. They wrestled to cheers and jeers. The winner would continue; losers were dragged off and turned over to be used. One such man was blindfolded and tied spread-eagled over a pile of saddles; he gasped and moaned as a soldier fucked him violently, banging against his buttocks with loud sucking slaps. A line of men stood behind, waiting. Scattered throughout the grounds others watched or participated in groups. Still more, unwilling to wait, paired off among themselves around campfires, or moved and danced as dim shadows inside tents. Dionikas strode past all this, his mind still in a surging fury, unseeing. A breeze cooled the sweat on his back and brought the promise of a relief from the heat.
The magician was waiting when Dionikas reached his tent. Creon brought him; the soldier who was Dionikas' favorite clasped him by his elbow, his eyes flashing like spears in the moonlight as he released him. Without a word, without waiting for a dismissal from Dionikas, he turned and walked away.
Creon did not wander far--just to the nearest campfire where a captive was bound wrist-to-foreskin-to-ankle and the soldiers were casting lots for him.
The magician stood tall and looked Dionikas straight in the eye as he slowly rubbed his wrists; Dionikas immediately felt power in the presence of such a one, coiled in his muscles, smouldering in his eyes. His chest rose and fell in deep steady breaths as he dropped his hands to his sides. Dionikas was still sweating and panting.
They stood there for what seemed a long time, watching each other breathe.
Finally, Dionikas said, "You did not resist."
The man shook his head, brown hair tossing about his ears. "I'll not dishonor my name--my status--by screeching and groveling. Those who violate and kill me do themselves a greater dishonor." His voice, fine and clear with the timbre of youth, sprang from his belly and carried across the din of the camp like a mountain brook.
"So who are you?"
"Ratha, a Magician. And you are Dionikas, second son of Penthos, the late King of Elyrrha."
Dionikas finally cracked a smile. "You are indeed a Magician."
"No magic," Ratha responded with a shrug. "You wear the ring of Elyhrra; the king's second son is a great warrior and you appear about his age. There was also the matter of your feud with Einar. I hear much and see much more."
"Einar has not been found; did you turn him into a rat so he could escape with my niece of 12?"
"I would not so dishonor a rat. Einar told me nothing of that; the man is a bully and rules through fear, so his household was afraid to see and even more afraid to speak. I am sorry." Ratha dropped his eyes and clasped his hands in front of him.
"So you know nothing after all." Dionikas spat the words.
"I was not given the freedom of the castle." Ratha shifted his weight to one leg and rested his hands on his hips as he returned a strong counterthrust, undeterred by Dionikas' outburst. "Nor did I wish his company. I have not seen him since the second day of seige. I do know there are tunnels into the mountains."
Dionikas looked back over to his camp and felt a pang of guilt. Those men had fought so bravely against him.
Ratha caught that look and said, "Revenge is nothing more than a rock rolling down a mountain, crushing all in its path."
"Revenge! What do you know of....?"
"Just that I was firstborn and cheated of my birthright when my cousin and jealous brother sold me to the Magician's Guild at 14. My family has since been dead to me."
"That scar on your thigh is from the Guild then."
Ratha moved his malehood to one side and turned. "It represents my clan--the hound."
Dionikas nodded absently; he found himself staring at the other man's maleness instead. He stirred against his leather loin pouch and adjusted himself slightly.
"It's the tradition that the Guild scars us there."
"It didn't...hurt?"
"We learn to turn away pain." Ratha smiled. "This was our first lesson."
Dionikas found himself wondering whether it was his imagination or if Ratha had been slowly stroking himself. Ratha released himself and the organ now appeared longer than it had been. His own member poked angrily against his pouch. Dionikas shifted his weight, turning slightly away from the Magician; Ratha watched this and his malehood noticeably twitched and lengthened.
"How did you end up with such a one as Einar?" Dionikas asked, a little too suddenly. He was aware of a number of eyes on them, including Creon's.
"I go where The Powers will me. I arrived in his land at a time when travellers were feared so I became his...guest." The last word spat out like a serpent spat poison. "He was too frightened to kill me and too frightened to let me go."
"Einar was too frightened to see the light of the sun; why didn't you escape, if you are a Magician?"
"I was barely there a quarter moon, and some of his guards provided their own hospitality. But do you you think it was just your considerable skill as a warrior which allowed you to bring him down so easily?"
His maleness stretched and jerked upwards. Dionikas couldn't keep his eyes off it and his own felt like it was going to poke a hole through something.
"In that case, I am in your debt after all." Dionikas hoped to divert his attention and forced himself to look Ratha right in the eyes--one of the deepest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. He immediately wondered why that thought entered his head. Those blue eyes sparkled; was this Magician casting a spell on him?
"Why would he keep you?" The question was asked more in an effort to get back into the general topic.
"He wanted information--more than I knew, but he would not believe it. He had me closely watched, hoping I would reveal something of value to him, not knowing we are incapable of hiding truth. But people such as Einar live with untruth so they do not recognize the truth."
"You do seem unable to hide anything," Dionikas said. He reached inside his pouch to ease the pressure on his own discomfort and realized what it was he really wanted to it poke it into. Its head now protuded above the top of his pouch.
"Are you having problems?"
There was a tease in Ratha's voice. Dionikas looked at Ratha as hot blood rushed to his face, burning to his ears. Ratha, too, blushed. Both had now become totally aroused in the other's presence. Dionikas glanced over to Creon's campfire.
He heard screams and groans and grunts of pain and passion. The smell of lust hung about the camp like smoke from campfires and it charged the air like the approaching storm. The men at Creon's campfire still cast lots; now they gambled towards Dionikas' tent, huddling together in conversation with Creon--a man of considerable leadership ability in his own right.
"Just a little...uncomfortable."
"A storm's comong; should we not go inside?"
"The only place would be my tent." It came out a growl but Ratha smiled at that.
Dionikas turned to his tent and pulled his aside his pouch; his member popped out and he sighed, pausing just long enough to enjoy the cool air on it. It was then he then realized he was the last man in the camp wearing anything.
He entered his tent, knowing Ratha followed and feeling the eyes of Creon on them. He decided Creon was perfectly capable of finding a replacement and didn't care if Ratha had him under a spell or not.
His tent faced west with an upper flap open to the east stirring a breeze through the tent, bringing the smell of rain. Dionikas' own scent hung about the place like morning mist. He kicked his blankets into a pile and turned to face Ratha as first his sword and then his loin pouch dropped at his feet.
Dionikas bent to move the sword aside and watched Ratha's buttocks flex and flow as he closed the tent flap. Dionikas stood and found himself staring back at two blue gems beckoning him as the other approached.
Ratha touched Dionikas's beard, his fingers strong and hard. Those fingers stroked his beard, marked a circle around his mouth, and moved down his chin--his throat--his chest--where the fingers splayed and rubbed his chest in ever-widening circles, pulling and playing in the thick mat of dark hair, circling around to the nipples. Dionikas, the lion of a man who led an army of house guards, servants and farmers to avenge the destruction of his father's house, trembled, his cock twitched and oozed against the other man's and sweat dripped down his sides. He thought he would smother in his own scent, faint from the musk of this other man's smell.
A hand touched Dionikas's shoulder, a hand warm and firm as the finest wood and as light as the breeze caressing his neck, his back, his buttocks. The other hand slid down and buried itself in the fur at the soft mound of his belly before tugging and stroking his long foreskin. Every touch, every motion was sure, confident and experienced.
Dionikas wrapped his arms around the other man and pulled him close, feeling the firm planes of his back muscles and the grit of dried sweat. He smelled of smoke, of sage and of a lust no magic could create.
Ratha grabbed the other's beard, and they breathed face to face, panting off their heat in perfect rhythm and drowning in each other's sweat. Dionikas slid his arms even lower, just below Ratha's buttocks, and they were down among the blankets in a motion as smooth as a fishing hawk.
It was Ratha who found the lamp oil, pouring it into his hands and caressing Dionikas's cock with it. Dionikas entered the magician like a sword into its scabbard as Ratha met him and they moved together like the moons and the seas.
Neither noticed an extra point of light from the western end of the tent, a point of light which spilled onto Ratha's forehead, poured up over onto Dionikas's shoulder and rolled up and off his shoulder blade and up and off again, a point of light from the flap pushed aside just far enough for Creon to peer through. Rain spattered, then hammered on the tent top.
The scent of the magician's breath panting with their rhythm and their musk and the memories of all his other men with their sweat and bodies and lust spun together in Dionikas' brain and rolled down into his loins. He growled and thrust deeper and Ratha added a final rhythm of his own.
Yet all he would remember would be the tale as the legends would tell it, that as their power surged between them, thunder rolled from the sky and lightning broke the high turret of the castle and the Magician shot blue white fire which crackled in the air around them.